


Golden

by brightlikeloulou



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Child Abuse, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-02-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:13:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22662283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brightlikeloulou/pseuds/brightlikeloulou
Summary: An aching loneliness had begun to settle in him, tolling on his desire to live, or so he’d thought until he was faced with returning to lonely and dead infested freedom, or being slaughtered like a pig.He saves himself, and the stranger by the troth with him. They escape and survive together.*Or, in an Alternate Timeline and Universe, Paul and Daryl meet at Terminus.
Relationships: Daryl Dixon/Jesus
Comments: 43
Kudos: 110





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Guess who's back, back again... 
> 
> Yeah so I've had no inspiration for months, but now this has arrived. 
> 
> Basically it's a fic I wanted to write a year ago, but didn't. 
> 
> New update tomorrow. 
> 
> oh & the title is from a Harry Styles song cause the lyrics are nice & kinda fit the fic, so check it out.

** Day 1 **

He can feel his heart in his throat as he bites around the gag between his lips. His hands are trembling under the ropes where they sit in his lap. Blood dribbles down the troth in front of him until it reaches the drain; the first body slumps forward. 

Two more people become bodies. Paul’s eyes flicker to the man on his left; bruised, bleeding, struggling against his confines as wild eyes search the concrete room for some means of escape. 

Those eyes meet his moments later, and they stare at each other, nostrils flaring and lips twitching. A final comfort before they’re slaughtered like pigs. 

At least that’s what this other man thinks. Paul isn’t giving up so easily. 

The man with the bat is standing behind him now, talking to the one who holds the knife, both wearing aprons on. 

_ As if being sanitary makes this better.  _

The bat’s raised, and Paul tears his eyes away from the older man. 

_ Breath in and fight.  _

Hands slip from the ropes, untied minutes ago, he slams his head back, and his skull connects with the man’s groin. By the time he’s collapsed to the ground in pain, Paul’s on his feet and ripping the bat from his hands. He swings it, hair whipping around his face, and the  _ thunk _ of the metal connecting with the other man’s head has his gut-churning. 

He falls, eyes closed, body still, temple crushed. 

Paul looks to the man on the ground, who’s now regained some strength and is struggling to his feet. 

_ I don’t want to kill him.  _

_ I know darling, but you have to.  _

He can make it quick. 

The bat lands on its target again, and just like that, the man is dead. 

Paul drops the bat, but only for a moment, he’ll need it again. 

The man who would have been joining him in death yells around his gag, eyes frantic as he looks up at him. Paul collapses to his knees beside him, and it only takes him seconds to untie the ropes confining his hands to his lap. The man rips the gag from his mouth once they’re free. 

With Paul’s hands on his shoulders, the man stands, still shaking with what he’s sure is a mix of fear and adrenaline. 

“Paul Rovia,” he introduces himself, panting slightly. 

“Daryl Dixon,” the older man manages and turns to where several other metal baseball bats are hanging on the wall and takes one for himself.

Paul makes his way across the concrete room, spotting the display of knives laid out on tables through an opening in the concrete walls, lined with bars. Only once inside does he see there hanging remains of carcasses from the roof, on crude metal hooks. 

“Fucking savages,” Daryl grunts from behind him, and Paul jumps slightly, not noticed he’d followed him. 

Paul tears his eyes away, “Let’s snag some of these and get the fuck out of here,” he says, picking up several knives and tucking them away, apart from one which he keeps tightly in his hand. Daryl does the same. 

*

Paul knew the basic layout of Terminus, as he’d willingly entered and had spent several hours being given a false sense of security before being round up into a shipping container. That was six days ago now. He’d be humiliated that he was currently in his own piss, shit and vomit stained clothes if Daryl’s weren’t the same. 

_ ‘I’m sorry. We’ve run into an unexpected shortage.’  _ Garett told him as he was knocked over the bag of the head. 

Daryl was following Paul lead, which suggested his experience hadn’t been the same. They’d been slowly slipping in and out of the outbuildings, around shipping containers, managing to stay out of sight of the snipers on the roofs. 

This man is a stranger, and Paul doesn’t trust him in the slightest, but he knew that having the man with him increased his chances of getting out of this hell. 

They’re close to an opening in the fence when they hear voices around the corner in front of them. Daryl grabs Paul by his shirt before he reacts and pulls him back to a door they had just passed, opens it, and shoves him inside. Daryl closes the door behind him, as silent as possible. Then they both turn to realize what they’re looking at. 

A storage room with tables stacked with garbage bags and containers. Clothes, books, jewelry, glasses, personal belongings. __

_ Children’s toys.  _

“All these people,” he whispers, eyes wide and lips parted, staring at the sheer amount of it, “Fucking kids,” 

Daryl steps around him, walking fast and determined, stopping in front of a table lined with weapons and snatches a crossbow from the table.

“Anything yours?” he asks him. 

_ Pack.  _

“My pack,” he remembers, and his legs begin to walk of their own accord. It’s a generic pack, but what’s in it is important, “Is there a Bowie knife over there? Wooden handle with P.R engraved on the side,” the knife was on his person, and when he woke up in the shipping container, it was gone, and so was the switchblade in his boot, but he didn’t care about that. 

“Yeah. Mine’s here too. Anything else?” 

“No, just my pack,” Paul grunts, searching through a mass pile of packs until he finds his. He grabs it and pulls it to him. 

_ Camo.  _

Undoing the zippers, he finds it seems to be untouched; they didn’t care enough to see if anything was useful. He checks it anyway. 

_ Clothes, cigarettes, lighter, photo album, dagger, pack of bullets, water bottle, canned beans, torch, tape, first aid kit.  _

He swings it onto his shoulders just as the door opens. Daryl has a bolt through the man's forehead before Paul has his pack on. 

_ Middle-aged, obese, balding, handgun.  _

“Take his gun,” Paul tells him. 

Daryl nods, but stops by one of the containers and pulls a poncho out of it and throws it at him. He catches it easily, tucking it into the side pocket of his pack and then following Daryl out of the building.

“It’s got a full magazine,” The older man tells him quietly as they begin moving again, holding the gun tightly after handing Paul his knife. 

“Not enough,” Paul murmurs, “Not for the amount they have here,” 

“We best get out of here before they realize we’ve gotten away then,” 

“We’ve already left behind a trail of bodies. They’ll know within minutes if they don’t already,” 

They come across two more people. They don’t see them. They don’t have to kill them. 

_ Still a trail of five. _

They duck around another building and finally find what appears to be a mostly quiet back gate. Tall, fading red steel. It’s most likely where cars have cars enter. There are two guards they can see. Several parked vehicles, one shipping container with a ladder up the side that acts as a lookout post.

“Gonna have to kill them and take a car to get far away enough,” Daryl says, turning back to him from where they’d been leaning around one of the endless shipping containers. Blue eyes stare at him from behind greasy strands of hair, “I’ll take ‘em out and get the gate, you need to get in a car and fucking pray it has the keys in it. If it doesn’t, we piss bolt out of here, alright?” 

Paul nods, tightening his grip on his knife to try and stop his hand from shaking. 

_ I don’t trust you. But I can’t get out of here without you.  _

*

It takes barely a minute for it to happen. Sneaking around the container until they’re spotted, Daryl takes out the two they had already seen with his bow as Paul runs to the closest car before they can even raise their guns. 

Just as Paul reaches the car and pulls the door open, shots are fired, and they come from the roofs. Snipers they hadn’t seen. 

“Fuck!” Paul hisses and climbs into the car, tossing his pack into the back seat. He finds the keys in the glove box just as Daryl gets the gates open. Paul puts the car in drive, and the tires squeal as he turns it toward the swinging open gate, effectively blocking Daryl from the bullets being sent his way.

He doesn’t even slow it to a full stop to let Daryl in, just enough that he can climb inside without falling on his face, and once he’s sat, Paul puts his foot flat on the accelerator. 

They’re a hundred meters down the road when Paul notices the hissing and swearing to his right. Looking over, he sees Daryl clutching at his arm, blood seeping through the soiled fabric of his shirt and staining his fingers. 

“You’re hit,” Paul says, trying to look at the wound but also avoid the walkers appearing on the road, attracted by the gunshots and engine of the car. 

“Just a graze,” Daryl grunts, reaching behind for Paul’s back and grabbing his poncho from it, proceeding to tie it around his arm. 

_ Okay. He’s not going to bleed out. A graze isn’t serious.  _

“We need to get further away,” Paul tells him, swerving to avoid the walker straggling toward them, “Can you wait a few miles before we tend to it?” 

“Drive until the fucking tank is empty,” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments on the first chapter were wonderful, please keep it up <3
> 
> New chapter tomorrow

** Day 1 **

Daryl had told him he’d been headed North East, toward the South Carolina border. It was a four-hour drive, if it was a normal situation; no walkers, no pile-ups, easy access to gas, a reliable car, a GPS to tell them were to go, all roads usable. 

That’s not how things were anymore. 

They got sixty miles of the way (forty minutes) before the car was out of gas, and it sputtered to a stop on the side of the road. Paul sighed as he bent his head forward, resting it on the wheel, knuckles whitening with their grip. 

“It’s getting dark anyway,” Daryl huffs, shifting in his seat to stretch his legs, “They ain’t gonna follow us this far, not when they got those fuckin’ signs everywhere about Sanctuary. They’ll have their meal replacements by this time tomorrow,” 

“That’s a fucking sick way of looking at it,”

“I know,” Daryl’s reply is quiet, and he knocks his head back against his seat. 

Paul forces himself to sit straight, running a hand through his hair, “I don’t trust you,” he says, looking over at the man. 

_Black eye. Chapped lips. Cuts. Bruises. Bloody nose. Soiled clothes. He stinks just as bad as I do._

Daryl stares back at him, fingers tapping atop his thigh, an attempt to hide the shake in them, “I don’t trust you either, asshole,” 

“If you try to hurt me, kill me, you won’t live to regret it,” he tells him, his voice a snarl and his eyes hard. 

_Please don’t. I don’t like killing people. I have to protect myself, but I don’t want to kill the living. They were ordinary people before the world changed them, most of them at least._

_Darling, it’s okay to hurt if the situation calls for it. You know that. You watched me because he hurt you._

_I do know. I didn’t know then._

_For so many reasons, my love._

Daryl stares right back at him, lip twitching as he considers what to say, “What’ve you got in your pack?” is what comes out. 

_We’re at a mutual understanding then._

Paul opens the car door and opens the back one, unzipping his pack and beginning to rummage through it, “I have a small first-aid kit, enough for a graze and luckily enough, two changes of clothes, one being a few sizes too big for me, they might fit you,” 

*

“Here,” 

Paul passes the bottle of water to Daryl as he tosses the empty can of beans out the car window. He feels better now, somewhat full, being in clothes that don’t smell of his own bodily fluids, but he’s still so exhausted. 

“This all you got?” 

Paul nods as he takes Daryl’s empty can and tosses it out the window too. Usually, he wouldn’t do such things; care for the environment and all that, but he was almost killed to be eaten today, and he can’t bring himself to give a fuck. 

“We’ll be on foot tomorrow,” Daryl says, tilting the bottle and downing what’s left of it in one go, “Head through the woods, find some water, some game if we're lucky,” 

Paul nods in agreement, “Woods is a good idea. They may still be searching or have scouts. Close by towns and such are too risky right now,"

Daryl hands the bottle back to Paul, wincing at the strain on his newly bandaged arm. Paul tucks the bottle into his pack, which sat in his lap and then tucked it on the dashboard. 

“Should sleep in shifts, take turns spread over the backseat,” Daryl mumbles around the thumb he was chewing on. 

“You go first, you’re the one with a gun wound after all,” 

“I don’t trust you either, Paul,” 

_You called me Paul. With everything that happened, I didn’t have time to tell you everyone calls me Jesus. I haven’t been called Paul for so long. It almost doesn’t sound like my name anymore._

“I have no reason to hurt you unless you start something. I don’t like killing. I don’t do it unless it’s necessary; right now, it’s not necessary,” 

Daryl considers it for a few minutes, staring out the window of the car. He eventually huffs and pushes the passenger door open but doesn’t get out before turning to stare at him, “What you said to me earlier, same goes for you. You won’t have time to regret it,” 

Paul nods, and apparently, that’s all that needs to be said before Daryl climbs out of the car, and then into the back seat. He lays down on his back and closes his eyes. He’s out within minutes, and Paul wonders how long Daryl had been kept at Terminus. 

* * *

** Day 7 **

Paul wakes to a soft shaking on his shoulder. He cracks his eyes open, they’re bleary and heavy. It had been his shift to sleep since roughly 3am. Their day starts at 6am, wake up, find privacy to piss and shit, eat, and then keep moving. Get as much space between Terminus and them, and then figure out their plan. 

Daryl’s kneeling done above him, and Paul props himself up on his elbows, “Morning,” he grumbles, never a morning person, and rubs at his eyes. 

Daryl grunts and stands, “I’m gonna go check those traps I set last night, you okay to catch up?” 

Paul nods, and with that, Daryl leaves. 

Paul goes through his routine. 

_Put on my trench coat. Pack up camp. Put out the fire. Piss and shit, if possible. Tie up hair. Follow Daryl._

*

Paul’s thirty minutes into following Daryl when he hears the gunshot. 

He instantly breaks into a run, pulling his bowie knife from where its sheathed on his belt. Daryl’s not stupid, he knows the risks of firing a bullet in the woods, for walkers or strangers to hear, so it must have been absolutely necessary. 

He hears the struggling before he sees it, a mix of growls and grunts, the slicing of a knife. 

He soon sees them, five walkers still up, Daryl on his back struggling with the one on top of him. 

Paul reaches them just in time to slice his knife through the skull of the second walker who had stumbled to its knees, ready to take a chunk from Daryl’s bicep, he then pulls the first walker off Daryl and puts it down too.

Daryl gets to his feet, takes out the third and fourth, and Paul gets the fifth. There were three others already dead. 

_We work well together._

Paul pants and wipes at the blood on his cheek as he steps over to Daryl, who was picking up his crossbow, which he seemed to have dropped earlier on in the struggle. 

Paul scans him, no tears in his clothing, no blood that seems to be his own. 

“Are you okay?” he asks more frantically than he had intended to, he was just getting used to having someone around again, he didn’t want to watch Daryl die of a fever now, “No scratches or bites?” 

“I’m fine,” Daryl says, but winces as he rolls his shoulder, and rolls his eyes when he sees Paul’s concern heighten, “Just landed funny, and scratches don’t do nothing,” 

Paul sighs a little in relief, but his brows furrow as he tucks his knife back into its sheath and adjusts his pack, “Better to not take the risk though,” 

“Ain’t no risk,” Daryl mumbles and picks up a dead rabbit, snarls, and then tosses it to the side, apparently a walker having gotten a bite in it. Paul’s shoulders slump too, they had run out of beans on day five, and hadn’t eaten since, “The virus is spread through bacteria in their teeth, not fingernails,” 

Paul freezes for a moment, “How do you know that?” 

Daryl grunts as he readjusts his crossbow and then begins checking the pockets of the walkers, “Was at the CDC a few months in, there was a scientist left there, he explained the mechanics of it, at least as much as they knew, which wasn’t that much,” 

Paul stares at him in surprise, “You were at the CDC? Holy fuck. What else did he say? Is there a cure? What about other countries?” He asks naively, and he already knows the answer. 

“There isn’t a cure, they weren’t even close. The last people they were in contact with was France, but they were no better. They knew it was in their teeth, and it destroyed all of their brain except for the part that kept them walking. That's it.” 

Paul’s hands start to shake, and he blinks back the sudden tears, “Nothing of who they were? No slight memories or instincts, nothing?” 

“You think there was?” 

“I hoped,” 

Daryl finishes the last walker and looks over at him, “Did you not put down someone you should have?” 

Paul shocks at the blunt question and feels an urge he feels to shove the older man against a tree, get in his face and tell him to mind his own business. 

_No. Swallow down that anger._

“Let’s keep going,” Paul hisses and walks past the other man. 

_It was nine months ago now. All the way back in Arkansas. There isn’t anything I can do about it. Just remember him how he was. Hair. Hands. Mouth. Smile. How he touched me. How he was with me. Remember how it used to be, not how he is now._

_No, darling. Don't think of him at all._

*

They set up camp by a small rock formation that night. 

The fire crackled between them as they ate. Daryl had managed to kill two squirrels during their travels that day, only fifteen miles or so due to the brush being thick and running into walkers several more times that had been attracted to Daryl’s earlier gunshot. 

It wasn’t enough for two grown men, but it somewhat soothed the painful bite in their stomachs. 

It was two hours or so after sundown, and Paul was meant to be taking the first watch for Daryl to sleep, but the man had shown no sign of laying down to rest. 

He perks up when he watches Paul light a cigarette, “You got smokes?” he asks, and he sounds thrilled at the prospect. Paul tosses the packet and lighter to him, “Man, you had these all this time and didn’t fucking pull ‘em out until now?” 

Paul shrugged, inhaling his own, and he holds the smoke in for several seconds before blowing it out in rings, “They're hard to come by now. I try to only smoke them when I really need one,” he says, and then laughs pityingly at himself, “I’d been clean of them for two years, and then the world fucked itself, and my usual stress reliefs weren’t available,”

“Usual stress reliefs?” Daryl grunts around his cigarette and tosses the pack and lighter back to him.

“You know, gyms, my martial arts classes, sex, and drinking is just stupid now, can’t fight walkers if you can’t stand straight,” 

Daryl snorts a laugh, and it shocks Paul a little. It’s the first time he’s seen any emotion from Daryl that wasn’t anger or sadness. Paul’s lips quirk in a small smile. 

“I can’t remember the last time I was out in the woods just for the sake of it. Now we’re here because we’re hiding, before that it’s been needing to find food or my people starved,” 

_That’s the first time he’s sort of opened up to me._

Paul ignores the man’s mention of ‘my people’, knowing that it would probably just put him in a mood that would leave Paul sitting alone and bored while Daryl faked sleep, “Me too. I loved being outdoors; hiking, fishing, camping, horse riding,” 

Daryl hummed softly, seeming nostalgic himself as he puffed at his cigarette, the most peaceful Paul had ever seen him, conscious at least.

They talk for the next hour until Daryl falls asleep up against the rock he was sat at. 

They spoke of the forests Paul explored in Arkansas, Daryl's Chupacabra sighting, the one-time Paul broke his ankle while hiking and had laid in pain on the trail for three hours until fellow hikers had found him. 

Paul watches Daryl for a little while before managing to focus on the woods. 

_Who knows, maybe one day the woods can be for the sake of it again._


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i <3 y'all

** Day 13 **

They’re about one-hundred miles away from Terminus now, another eighty from the border. They both seem to be holding out some kind of hope for the border, that once they cross it, they’ll have some sense of security from what they’d gone through.

They’re still in the woods, a silent agreement between them that they don’t want to risk going out onto the roads until South Carolina. The chances of the Terminus people still following them, after this long, is small. Like Daryl had said, they would have their meal replacements by now.

But it was such a terrifying, sickening thought that they had come so close to being cannibalized, that they were both contented staying in the woods for now.

It’s been incredibly hard. It was around late may, the end of spring and the weather was beginning to turn to the harsh heat of summer, even if they traveled under shade all day, the humidity was still slowing them. Game was sparse due to the heat and commonness of walkers in these woods.

The animals had learnt the dangers. Walkers mean death, stay away from them.

They had been lucky enough to find a river, which they followed loosely to remain close to water. Paul used the water purifier he kept in his pack, Daryl slurped it up in his hands, despite Paul’s offerings.

_If he gets sick because he’s a stubborn bastard not afraid of germs, I won’t forgive him._

They need to rest, as much as they don’t want to admit it, for more than eight hours a night. Their paces are slow because they barely eat, their legs ache and the rough terrain walking has been enough for blisters to form on Paul’s incredibly calloused feet.

_Eighty more miles. Another ten to twelve days if we can keep our pace up. Then we can rest, I’ll nag him until he agrees._

“You’re slowing.” 

Paul looks up from where he had been staring at his feet.

_One foot in front of the other._

“I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t even have the energy to snap back right now.

“You hurt?” Daryl then asks, slowing his own pace so they walk side by side. Paul knows what he’s referring to. They’d ran into walkers that morning and Paul had taken a fall.

“No,” he says, he doesn’t consider the small ache in his knee ‘hurt’.

“Do you want to stop for a bit? Have some water and shut your eyes for an hour or so?”

Paul shakes his head, “We both need rest, real rest, a few days or a week. I don’t understand why we’re both holding out that we’ll be safer when we pass the border, but it’s keeping us moving. By my calculations, we can be there in ten-ish days if we keep up this pace. Then we’ll rest. Properly.”

Daryl nods his agreement, and they don’t speak again.

* * *

** Day 15  **

They found food. Real, proper food.

_Three rabbits. Shot through the eye with Daryl’s bolts. No suffering._

It was only midday, but they once again hadn’t eaten in two days and were starved. Daryl skinned the rabbits while Paul started the fire to cook them on.

“I had a pet rabbit once,” Paul mumbles a few minutes later when his rabbit is crudely impaled on a stick and held over the fire, “Peter. You know, like you kids’ book?”

“Never heard of it,” Daryl mumbles around the cigarette between his fingers.

Paul stares at him in shock, “You’ve never heard of Peter Rabbit? It’s a classic!” he asks, eyebrows raised toward his hairline.

Daryl shrugs and turns his rabbit, “Didn’t have much of kids books growing up,” he mumbles, “Had magazines; cars, bikes. My brother liked to shove his pornos under my nose too,”

Paul hums in understanding, “Well, I’m going to be on the lookout for it from now on. Everyone should read Peter Rabbit at least once,” 

Daryl shrugs like he doesn’t care, but Paul catches the roll of his eyes and smirk. Neither have any heat in them.

“There was on book in grade school,” Daryl starts a few minutes later, and Paul gives him his full attention immediately, “Probably one of the few I ever read, was something ‘bout these kids, crashed on an island or something and had’ta figure out leadership and shit like that, I don’t really remember it,”

“Lord of The Flies,” Paul answers for him, smiling because of course that would be one of the few books Daryl had read.

Daryl’s eyes flicker over to him, “Yeah, that’s it. You’ve read it?”

“My class had to a book report on it when I was in middle school,”

Daryl hums and pulls his rabbit back from the fire, checks the meat and then puts it back, “I thought of that book a few months in, back when I had a group. We were figuring out authority and all that shit. Rick was more of a peaceful leader, Shane not so much,” he sighs heavily and then sits straighter, a hand brushes through his hair, “’spose it don’t mean shit in the end though. Rick ended up killing Shane, and he may as well be dead now too.”

Paul picks at a loose strand on his shirt.

_‘What are we? Humans? Or animals? Or savages?’_

_Perhaps we are a mix of all three._

“I’m sorry,” Paul finally says, “Were you close with either of them?”

“Shane, no. He was… they were both cops, they knew each other before, was a whole damn drama revolving Rick’s wife before Rick turned up alive,” Daryl goes silent for several minutes, apparently having touched on a subject he didn’t want to discuss, “Rick killed Shane a few months in. Our group was together from the beginning to maybe two months ago… Our camp was overrun, everyone scattered. I couldn’t find any of them, I don’t know who’s alive,”

“They were friends?” Paul asks gently, because as long as Daryl’s talking, he wants to keep it that way. He wants to get to know him.

Daryl nods, “Family, really. Only good one I ever had,”

“I’m sorry,”

“Why? Ain’t nothing you could do would fix it,”

“It’s called being sympathetic, Daryl. It’s what friends do,”

Daryl snorts, “What happened to not trusting me to kill you in your sleep?”

Paul rolls his eyes.

_Fucking stubborn bastard can’t just let things go sometimes._

“I still don’t trust you,” He agrees, looking over the fire at the older man and they share an icy gaze, “But I’ve been alone since the initial outbreak, and so far, you’re the only person who hasn’t tried to hurt me. Apparently, that’s my friendship standards now,”

That’s the end of the conversation.

They sit in complete silence save for the crackle of the fire and then their eating once the rabbits were finally finished.

*

_Am I going to die? Do I want to?_

_Did I die for you, just so you can do the same? Darling no._

_I didn’t want you to. You shouldn’t have done it. It ruined me._

_He had already ruined you._

_No._

_If I had of been better-_

_No!_

_To realize it before-_

_No!_

_Darling, I should have been better._

_No. No. No. No! No! No!_

He wakes with a broken cry on his lips, eyes snapping open to find himself held down.

To frantic to take in the face above him, he wraps his legs around their waist and flips them, shoving them down and wrapping his hands around their throat and squeezes.

_Breath in and fight._

He squeezes and the person beneath him struggles, hands attempting to pull Paul away but Paul is stronger.

His eyes begin to adjust to the dim light of the fire and the face blurred by his fear and rage focuses to be what’s been familiar to him for weeks now.

“Paul!” Daryl gasps out, face red and hands desperate.

Paul startles and his hands fall, Daryl takes the opportunity to shove him off him and then get to his feet.

Paul shakes where he lays on the ground and stares up at the panting man, “Fuck, I’m so sorry,”

“You were yellin’ in your sleep,” Daryl grunts, tenderly touching his neck, “Had to wake you, start attracting walkers. Hell, probably already on their way,”

“I’m sorry,” Paul repeats, and shame settles deep in his gut.

_I hurt him. I attacked him. Not the other way around._

Daryl grunts his acknowledgement and sits back down at his spot by the fire.

“It’s fine, surprised you s’all.”

“Are you alright?”

“I’ve had worse. Go back to sleep.”


	4. Chapter 4

** Day 20 **

“I’m sorry, I need to stop.”

Daryl listens immediately, stopping where he had been a few meters ahead, face overcome with concern as their eyes meet, “What’s wrong? We’ve only been going for twenty minutes.”

Paul collapses to the ground, his back against a tree and begins with the laces on his boots, “I have blisters, makes me sound like a wimp, right?” he shakes his head at himself.

“Not surprising, your boots are falling to pieces,” Daryl says and sits down in front of him, taking Paul by surprise and beginning on the laces of his second boot.

A minute later, Paul’s feet are exposed to the harsh light of the morning, and he winces immediately. They are much worse than he had thought, it was the first time he’d taken his boots off to check them.

The combination of worn socks, old boots that didn’t fit properly, and walking all day every day for the past three weeks, had taken quiet a toll on his feet. Skin was torn from the tops of his toes, the back of his heels, and even the soles.

“Fucking hell,” he groans to himself, and Daryl grabs his ankle to turn his foot and then swears at the sight of his heel, which was oozing puss.

“They’re fucking infected, why did you let them get this bad?”

Paul knocks his head back against the tree and his cheeks darken, “I hadn’t actually looked at them, I didn’t know. I figured the first aid kit needed to be saved for something more severe than blisters.”

“Well, that was a stupid fucking decision, because clearly these have gotten worse overnight and now you can’t walk,” he says with a heavy sigh, tying the laces of Paul’s boots around the strap of Paul’s pack, which he had been carrying, “Come on.”

“I can’t walk, Daryl,” he grunts.

“I know. We’re going back to where we camped last night. Take a day or two to let them heal.”

Paul that he’s the reason that they have to stop, but his boots will rub his feet rawer than what they already were.

Paul doesn’t have to ask, and Daryl doesn’t give him much of an option when he shoves the pack onto Paul, and then lets him climb onto his back, carrying him back to where they’d slept the night before.

*

Paul’s wincing a swearing softly as Daryl tends to his feet, cleaning them with alcoholic wipes and wrapping them.

“Let them have today to heal, we’ll take the bandages off in the morning and let ‘em breath for an hour, and then we’ll wrap them as thick as we can without not fitting into your boots.”

Paul nods and Daryl moves to sit on the other side of the fire, which they’d put out when they’d left earlier on.

“I’m really sorry.”

“Stop fucking apologizing,” Daryl hisses at him, and Paul can’t blame him, he’s just as sick of apologizing as Daryl is of hearing it.

Paul sighs heavily, slipping his eyes closed, “It’s just… we’re only three days away from the border, and now I’ve put us behind.”

“It’s fine,” Daryl tells him, reaching beside him to grab a rock and then slip his knife from his belt, proceeding to sharpen it, “Look, they ain’t after us now. They have cars and rifles. We’re on foot with one handgun between us. Getting to the border… it’s like you said, I don’t know why either of us are holding out for it.”

“Neither of us know what South Carolina will bring,” Paul murmurs, cracking his eyes open to look at Daryl.

“Rest, a few weeks at least. We’re both dead on our feet. We’ll try and find somewhere safe, a house, proper beds and somewhere to clean ourselves properly.”

Paul nodded because while they had found a river several days back, it wasn’t entirely safe to be around. The constant sound of the running water attracted walkers, it wasn’t safe to stick around longer than the few minutes it took to refill their water and wet the backs of their necks.

“I’ve never been to South Carolina before, have you?” Paul asks, not knowing much about the state other than its Capital being Columbia.

Daryl shakes his head, “I ain’t ever left Georgia before,”

“Really?” Paul asks, quirking a brow at him.

Daryl hums, not looking at him, “I lived in this shitty little town about an hour outside of Athens my entire life. I hadn’t even been to Atlanta until the outbreak. Me and my brother were trying to get to the Refugee Center.”

_That’s the first time he’s ever mentioned that he has a brother. Or had?_

“What’s your brother’s name?” Paul asks quietly, figuring that’s an easy way to ease into the subject.

“Merle,” Daryl snorted, and then for the first time in a while, met Paul’s gaze, “Merle and Daryl, doesn’t get more redneck that does it?”

Paul smiles, laughing softly as he shakes his head.

_If we’re going to be stuck sat here doing nothing, we may as well get to know each other. We’re all we have anyway._

“It’s not so bad,” he replies, “Did you ever make it to the Refugee Center?”

Daryl shakes his head, “We got close. Just outside of it, they had officials, rounding people into choppers and trucks ‘cause the place had been overrun. Me and Merle got shuffled into one, Merle saw the pilot was bit, shoved me out when we were a few meters off the ground, didn’t have time to warn to the others. We got the fuck out of there.”

“Is that when you met your people?” Paul asked softly.

“Yeah, well a few weeks later. Glenn, he was one of their runners, found us hidin’ out in Atlanta and took us back. Good thing he did, the city was so overrun we wouldn’t have lasted a few more days in there,” Daryl explains, “They had this camp up in a quarry, ‘bout an hour out of the city,”

“And that’s where you met everyone?”

Daryl nodded, “Yeah some of ‘em. We found more along the way. The camp there got overrun and we were on the move again, we lost a little girl… Rick’s son got shot by a hunter who didn’t see him, ended up on their farm. Old man called Hershel, he was a veterinarian but the closest thing we had to a doctor. He had two daughters, Maggie and Beth. Maggie ended up with Glenn; fell in love and got married,”

“That’s beautiful,” Paul murmurs and Daryl looks at him confused, “That two people can find each other in a world like this, have some sense of normalcy,”

Daryl hums, smiling a little at the memory of them and then his face goes cold again, “The farm is where Rick killed Shane. He’d gone crazy, wanted power, wanted Rick’s wife and their son for himself. Just after that happened the place got overrun, we lost a few people there, and then we were on the road again. For about eight months, until this June or something and then we found a prison. There was dead prisoners and staff, but it wasn’t overrun,”

“That’s where you lost everyone from?” Paul asks, and he’s so intrigued by everything that he wants to ask for more details, but he knows Daryl wouldn’t want to give them.

Daryl nodded, “We lived there for almost a year, I think. Then a guy from another community wanted what we had… but he ended up dead and we all had to scatter,” he sounds so incredibly sad now, and Paul can see a glassiness to his eyes, that he’ll pretend he hasn’t noticed.

“I’m sorry,” Paul whispers, looking down at his hands which he’s tapping against his thigh, “I’ve never had people, so I can’t imagine what it would be like to lose them. I suppose not knowing, is just as bad,”

Daryl begins to bite at the hangnails around his thumb, “I reckon I’d give anything just to know. I can’t stand it, they’re my family and I don’t know who’s left,”

Paul doesn’t know what to say and he’s quiet for several minutes, before clearing his throat and he feels like he’s buzzing in his body, hands tapping to a silent beat against his thighs, “I think I’d give anything to have that. People I loved, a family,”

“I thought I was fine with nobody but Merle,” Daryl grunts, and a smirk comes over his lips as he quickly wipes his eyes, “But then those bastards came along and made me care about them,”


	5. Chapter 5

**Day 27**

South Carolina was pretty much the same as Georgia, the same number of walkers, the same chance of death, but Paul knew that crossing the border had not only relaxed him but Daryl too. It was like a wall between them and Terminus. 

They’d crossed it two days ago now and had just found themselves in a quiet housing complex. 

_Ten houses. One gas station. No walkers or people that we can see at least._

It was twelve in the afternoon, or so, Paul wasn’t sure how accurate his watch was now. 

The town seemed deserted, but they didn’t take any chances. Daryl had his bow out, and Paul had the handgun, which they only had four bullets left for. 

They were quiet as they moved, checking corners and sharing glances until they reached the gas station. While Daryl inspected the two cars parked, looking for keys and left behind supplies, Paul tried the glass door to the gas station, which unsurprisingly was locked, so he pulled a pin from the collar of his shirt and bent down to pick it. 

“Nice,” Daryl grunted, and Paul turned to find he had been watching him, “Usually, I just kick in the glass.” 

Paul smirked and pushed the door open, “I like to be more subtle.” 

Daryl shared his smirk and moved onto the second car, “You good to check out in there?” he asked as he opened the driver’s door and slid into the seat. 

Paul answered by simply going inside. 

The last person in here had to be the owner, who just took what they could. It’s relatively untouched. Especially with the door locked. 

Paul swipes a pack from the display, similar to his own, and after doing a quick sweep of the small room, he unzips it all and begins going through the aisles. There’s only three in total. 

The first aisle is the usual gas station food, moldy bread that stinks up the whole room followed by some food that’s still edible; instant noodles and pasta, chips, some of the candies and chocolates, jerky, nuts, nutrition bars, instant coffee and tea bags, packets oatmeal, a few single-serving cereal boxes, and the remaining canned goods. 

The back wall is lined with chillers of drinks, and he knows all the soft drinks would be off, which is fine by him as he never acquired a taste for the stuff, but the waters are still okay, and he piles them into the pack too. 

The second aisle is the usual crap most gas stations stack, things for ‘just in case.’ He grabs the three remaining 1-buck torches, the bottle of lube (because the stuff can actually come in useful for things other than sex), the toilet paper, a pack of batteries, lighters, and a few basic first aid items along with some over the counter medications. 

_I just need some fucking Adderall._

The final aisle just holds magazines and crappy novels. He snags two books that sound mildly interesting, and then makes his last stop; behind the counter, smiles but internally hates himself as he shoves in the ten packets of cigarettes he finds there.

Daryl’s walking over to the door of the gas station just as Paul exits it, “Got everything?” 

Paul nods and hands him the pack, already carrying his own on his back, and Daryl grunts at the sheer weight of it, “We’ll split them up more evenly later, don’t worry,” he says, “Still pretty much untouched.” 

Daryl nods and lifts his shirt slightly to the new handgun there, “All that was useful, it’s got a full chamber. There’s plenty of fuel in the SUV, too, that we’ll take it when we move on.” 

Paul nods his agreement, glancing at the said car. 

_Old, black, been in a few accidents judging by the dents in it. Hopefully, it will run fine._

They get in the car, Paul driving and parking it (messily too look like it was abandoned like all the others). 

*

They choose the second house from the tree line on the far side of the collection of homes. 

Close to the woods that we can hide quickly, it’s the oldest looking, less likely to be chosen for shelter by anyone who may turn up.

They sweep the house and determine its safe; one story, one-bedroom, and bathroom, small kitchen. Paul sets the packs down and leaves Daryl to sort what goes where as he makes his way into the kitchen, searching for cutlery that they don’t have to eat with their fingers like they had been for almost the past month. 

He freezes at that thought and looks down at his watch. 

7th June 2012. 

They escaped Terminus on the 12th of May. 

_It’s only a few days short of a month since we first met. We’ve been all each other’s had for a month. He hasn’t hurt me yet. Can I trust him? I want to know that I can, I want him to know he can trust me too. I won’t hurt him. I won’t betray him._

He looks back at the man, he’s slumped against the couch as he goes between Paul’s pack and the new one he had just filled from the gas station to organise it and divide the weight evenly. Paul wasn’t worried about Daryl having his pack, his photo album was tucked safely into the pocket of his coat. 

Daryl looks just as tired as Paul feels. They should both be able to sleep properly tonight, they’d locked all the doors and windows, barricaded them too. They’d found one of the couches was a pull-out, so they wouldn’t have to share a bed, but they didn’t want to sleep in separate rooms, still too on edge, so they dragged the mattress out from the bedroom and put it beside the pull-out. 

As he opens a top cabinet and stretches his arm out, and he screws up his nose at the stench of his own armpit. The sweat isn’t even the worst smell coming off him. 

His eyes flicker to the sink, the tap. With hope building in his gut, he reaches out and turns the knob. It almost startles him when water begins rushing out, and he looks over in time to meet Daryl’s eyes. 

“House must be on tank,” Daryl says, and Paul nods, still feeling slightly astonished.

He turns the tap back off, “I’ll go look in the bedroom closet, get clean clothes, and I’ll wash ours tonight, in the sink or something. I need a fucking shower,” 

Daryl hums his agreement and goes back to the packs, seemingly not as ecstatic about the water as Paul, but he doesn’t care. 

*

_Fuck this is glorious. This is so fucking good._

The water cascades down him, the stains on his body changing its color to a murky brown and red by the time it reaches his feet. It’s cold, but that doesn’t matter, it’s still enough to make him groan happily as he slathers the shampoo into his hair and squeezes soap onto his hands, scrubbing every inch of himself. 

_This is the first real shower I’ve had since I got to Terminus. I wish it could wash away the memories too. I fucking ate what they fed me. That was a person._

A violent gag rips from him as he thinks about it, and he forces down the bile in his throat. 

_Darling, it’s okay, you didn’t know._

_It’s disgusting._

_They violated you. You’re safe from them now; they can’t hurt you, my love._

**Author's Note:**

> kudos & comments are loved & will inspire me to continue writing. 
> 
> Ask me about the fic, or anything, at my tumblr @iiloulouii


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